Tis sweet to think that, where'er we rove, <br />We are sure to find something blissful and dear, <br />And that, when we're far from the lips that we love, <br />We've but to make love to the lips we are near. <br />The heart, like a tendril, accustom'd to cling, <br />Let it grow where it will, cannot flourish alone, <br />But will lean to the nearest and loveliest thing <br />It can twine with itself, and make closely its own. <br />Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, <br />To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, <br />And to know, when far from the lips we love, <br />We've but to make love to the lips we are near. <br /> <br />'Twere a shame, when flowers around us rise, <br />To make light of the rest, if the rose isn't there, <br />And the world's so rich in resplendent eyes, <br />'Twere a pity to limit one's love to a pair. <br />Love's wing and the peacock's are nearly alike, <br />They are both of them bright, but the're changeable too, <br />And wherever a new beam of beauty can strike, <br />It will tincture Love's plume with a different hue. <br />Then oh! what pleasure, where'er we rove, <br />To be sure to find something, still, that is dear, <br />And to know, when far from the lips we love, <br />We've but to make love to the lips we are near.<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tis-sweet-to-think/
